Kallisti, Da?
by CuragaMoon13
Summary: Russia dreams of a romance with Greece the night before the World Conference. Will it be a dream come true? Greece/Russia with genderbending, one invented character  Tsarist Russia , and this is my first fic. Be gentle.


**Kallisti, Da?**

**Author's Note: I don't own Hetalia, nor do I have any affiliation to Funimation Inc. Really, I'm so out of the loop, it's scary. Believe me, if I was, there would be SO MUCH SEX, Yaoi, Yuri, whatever. **

Two simple words crossed Russia's mind when he first saw the slight brunette sitting across the room from him.

"Oh my."

She was stunning. Smaller, but had a relaxed smile, denoting a wonderful, laid back personality (all those workshops on reading people finally paid off), and green eyes that made contact with his own violet in such a way that Russia, strong as he was, could not suppress a shiver.

She was stunning. Smaller, but had a relaxed smile, denoting a wonderful, laid back personality (all those workshops on reading people finally paid off), and green eyes that made contact with his own violet in such a way that Russia, strong as he was, could not suppress a shiver.

She was stunning. Smaller, but had a relaxed smile, denoting a wonderful, laid back personality (all those workshops on reading people finally paid off), and green eyes that made contact with his own violet in such a way that Russia, strong as he was, could not suppress a shiver.

She was stunning. Smaller, but had a relaxed smile, denoting a wonderful, laid back personality (all those workshops on reading people finally paid off), and green eyes that made contact with his own violet in such a way that Russia, strong as he was, could not suppress a shiver. He, this man who can stand up to General Winter in all his fury without so much as blinking, _shivered_. Her eyes alone: and then her hair, her arms, her body, her face (not overly feminine, not masculine: to Russia, the face of an angel), and her smile… she was blooming like a sunflower in a midday field.

And then she looked over. And smiled at him. Not a smile that said "I want to do things to you," like his sister's. Not like Lithuania's nervous "Please don't stretch my spine" smile either (which he had learned to ignore a long time ago).

This was "I see you, Russia, and I like what I see. Come to me."

"Oh my…"

He started to walk over to her, arms outstretched, feeling like they were the only two people in the room. Their bodies met, their hands touched, their lips-

"Russia, please, sir… isn't it time to wake up? B-busy day ahead, Russia, sir."

Ugh. Lithuania. What business has he intruding in a dream like this?

"Дерьмо," said Russia, groggily. Someone was going to pay dearly for this. And he had a very good idea of who.

Unfortunately for Russia (and, in turn, fortunately for Lithuania and his various appendages), Lithuania was right: today was one of the few days he could not afford to be late. This was the day he was to leave his home to head to the World Conference, where all the countries gather to talk, debate, and eventually break into one huge argument. Russia sighed: this was going to be long few days. Even longer, if America shows up, and his damned pride would never allow otherwise. Russia felt a twitch of anger at the thought of seeing America again, especially after the reputation America had given him since they were at war together, but he was able to calm himself down. Yes, it'll be a long few days, but the thought of seeing the one that gave his world a rosy tint might make them bearable. Greece… it'd been so long since he'd seen her last, so long since he was last able to hear her speak. Such a pity really: he always felt more at peace with her around.

Still, business is business. Time to get up, Russia supposed. After giving Lithuania a playful whack to the back of the head (after which, Lithuania apparently fell unconscious: fainted, Russia presumed, because he was so shocked at his playful behaviour), he had a warm bath, brushed his teeth, and put on his coat. He paused a moment to look at the scarf Ukraine gave him when he was younger, which he rarely if ever went outside without, then put it on. He'd need all the good karma he could get.

And then he was off, to see her once again.

Ahh, the great building that holds the world conference. A nice little feeling hits Russia: he'll get to see her soon. Maybe she'll notice his new fur coat: exactly the same as his old one, but new, shiny, full of vitality and – maybe she'll notice – virility. He _does_ want to look his best for her… and, all the other countries, of course. He has a reputation to keep, you know.

Russia had loved once. It was the reason why he was so cold now. He didn't exactly have the best experience with her, especially near the end, but he still remembered her, and still had regrets.

Her name was Tsarist Russia.

Like Greece, she was beautiful. Unlike Greece, she was also brutal, and fearless, and everything that Russia was, and more. Her black fur coat glistened in the silver winter sun, and positively glowed in the moonlight. Everything they did together, they did perfectly: their battles were fought with brutal grace, their country was rich enough that they could put gold in their bread, and their love was unmatched. Truly, they thought they'd be together forever.

Sadly, Russia got anxious before long. The strain of the relationship was getting too hard on him: she was dominating, power-hungry, and more than a little greedy, especially when it came to their home, which needed to be perfect. More than just a palace: it needed to be a fortress of luxury. All the while, Russia grew more and more resentful of Tsarist Russia, wanting peace and prosperity for all, while she only wanted it for herself: but the more Russia protested, the more Tsarist Russia fought back, often physically, always verbally, with death threats, hate, and then love immediately after.

One night, they fell into the worst of it. Russia and Tsarist Russia were fighting in their kitchen, as usual, and things got way out of hand. She started beating him, over and over, with her fists, a loaf of bread, anything she could find. All the while, Russia was pulling back, away from the beating he was receiving from this dark, vicious creature. Knees, fists, broom handles, anything and everything was coming at him from all directions: he had had enough. He was going to stand up to this woman, show her the man he was. So he stood up (amidst a flurry of punches and strikes), and gave her a good hard shove. She fell back, head hitting the counter with a sickening crunch, and was still. Russia was going to gloat, but then he noticed the pool of blood on the floor, growing by the second. And the fact that she wasn't breathing. And the awkward, unnatural angle her neck was at. The soul who lived for power died fighting the one closest to her, and Russia knelt down and cried, because he knew that the only one to blame for this was himself.

He didn't think much of love after that.

_Whoosh! _The great double doors of the World Conference building swing open, and in walks a contented looking Russia, followed by very obviously nervous Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia (rather close together, and looking intently at Russia) and their drivers, who see them in and then dash off. Already there are a few people loitering around the front hall area: a stern looking Japan, a suitably jovial Italy, a debonair France, an… ugh, America. Russia tried his best to look neutral, almost jolly, but he was struggling: America and Russia were there, Greece was not, ergo this situation would be unpleasant for Russia (and, if they waited long enough, quite possibly for America as well) until one of the people there was removed or until Greece showed her pretty little face. Happy memories, in the face of such a head-throbbingly annoying adversary such as America, can only last for so long.

At that moment, the doors once again flew open. And there, standing in the doorway… was Poland.

"Дорогой Бог." Dear God. "If you are testing my faith in you, then I think you are overstepping your bounds as my deity. Amen," said Russia in his head.

God must have heard Russia's complaint, as the doors flew open again, and a slight brunette woman in a simple linen earth-toned dress entered the room.

Bingo. Greece. Russia felt himself calm down: perhaps this was going to be alright after all.

Greece entered the room and, as was her style, said nothing to anyone, just nodded her head to each person – friendly, but in a chilled out "whatever" kind of way. However, Russia noticed something about her that day.

She walked by Russia. And smiled. Right. At. Him. And brushed by him, so that his bare hand brushed against her linen dress. Russia, for the second time in his life and the first time in the real world, felt a little shiver go down his spine.

Oh yes, thought Russia. This is going to be very, very good.

He was right. The next few days, he kept noticing how Greece wanted to come over and talk to him, or how she smiled at him from across the room, or how she even tried a few times to hug him – which only met with success a few times: he had a reputation to uphold, but even so, he could not help but hold her back a few times, when no one else could see them. For his part, he had taken to putting his arm around her when he had the chance to (if no one was around) and also tickling her if he had the good fortune to be sitting beside her somewhere, and watching her face contort with laughter. It was odd: when he played with the bodies of Lithuania or Latvia, they never made faces like that. Then again, playing with Greece's body didn't involve playing them like an accordion, but at least she got the fact that he was playing. They talked a lot, her in quiet, laid-back tones and him with a voice even more tender and humble sounding than usual – of course, he couldn't really avoid doing so. He felt… calm around Greece, calm that he hadn't felt in so long. It was a calm that he remembered from when he was a little child, around Ukraine and Belarus (in the days before she lost her mind, poor dear), back when everything was peaceful. Russia felt… good. Not just okay, not stewing in inner anger, not sad at bad memories; just… good. And Greece, he was sure, felt the same way. Lithuania et. al. were pleased that Russia was out of their hair, America was shocked at how civil Russia was being to him, and everyone else for that matter, and Russia himself was surprised at the feelings that went through him at every glance.

He was right: this was very, very good.

"Courage, Russia. You can do this. It's just one simple question. Get ahold of yourself." All these thoughts were sounding in Russia's head one night as he made his way to the hall where Greece – and only Greece – was waiting for him.

Strange as it may sound, though Russia has had many, ahem, 'relations' with women in the past, he never got the chance to actually ask one out, per se. They all either fell into his arms (or, in the case of Belarus, smashed through his door once or twice) or forced him into it. He knew it was going to be different with Greece: he wanted to try what all the other people did when they wanted to be with someone. Ask them out. On a… -gulp-… _date_.

One problem: he had NO CLUE how normal people did so.

Well, he knew the question, and the intent behind it: but the phrasing, the context, the right time, the right combination of words - all that was a mystery to him. No time to think now, though: he was at the door to their meeting place. Hoping that this would be the right time, Russia opened the doors.

And suddenly, candles. Thousands of them. And a stereo. And a smiling Greece. And the music:

_Yooooouuu are, the only exception oh yooooouuu are, the only exception…_

Context: check.

"Hello, Russia, darling." Greece smiled. Darling!

"H-hello, Greece," said Russia, obviously still in shock.

"Do you like the setup? I did it all by myself. A nice touch of _ambience_, wouldn't you say?"

Right time: checkaroo.

"_Da_. It's very… sensual." Russia, now recovering from the shock, started to play a little mischievious.

Greece giggled softly. "Well said, Russia, well said."

Right phrasing: Chekhov. This was going to be good.

Russia chuckled softly, but nervously. "You know, I think I have something to tell you."

"I think you do too, Russia. You're not exactly very subtle, are you?"

"Looking at the way you've prepared this room, I could say the same about you." Russia smiled.

"Touche, Russia. You had something to say?"

Russia gulped. Now or never: "Yes, I do. For a while now, I've had these feelings… feelings of attraction-"

"A crush?"

"_Da_. A crush. On you."

Dammit. That came out awkwardly, but a hint of a giggle from Greece made him realize that she found that… _cute_.

"Since last year, right?" whispered Greece. Russia was too shocked to say anything more, so she continued. "Don't think I didn't notice your lingering looks, or your smiles hidden underneath that scarf of yours."

"So." She continued, "what happens now?"

Дорогой Бог.

"Well…"

"You were going to ask me out, weren't you?"

Дорогой БогДорогой БогДорогой БогДорогойБог…

"Yes, I believe I was."

"So…?"

Okay, now it was DEFINITELY now or never. He drew on every ounce of courage he had obtained in his lifetime and then…

"**Alright, Kristina, I'll just say it. Do you want to go out with me?"**

_To Be Continued…_


End file.
